Ted suffered a series of strokes in his sixties, resulting in slurred speech and a left shoe whose sole scraped over every surface. Ted was a visual artist who worked with me at the sewage plant, but still needed
Category: Poetry
colonizer, you have taken my tongue and i can only express my grief through the words imposed onto me before i had even opened my eyes colonizer, i cannot take your tongue and will it skillfully like my white
i swing the wand in practiced strokes as my niece laughs in glee when bubbles rain down from cloudless skies i want to believe in magic like she does forget how the solution was made or the science behind
There’s a lot of resurrection going on, the lambs’ chops on the spit, the sluggish yeasts that found a second wine and produced a vintage beer, small batch, reserved for people within a 20-mile radius. We sit under an
For the boy in the moon who never grew up Let his mobile be the stars Let him gaze at our crayon blue and green world a little longer Until colors fade and we no longer see him look
The flowering dogwood, its roots encased in concrete, sends skyward its shoots; each new branch striving for drops of rain and flecks of sun. And I am reminded of every little death between us; of all the sentences
Mesmerized by the silver clipper and certain sound, we bend to the task. The dimples have disappeared from her knuckles, but her fingertips are still the size of Navy beans. Still, I can say “pinky” and “pointer” without
limping to a quiet table in Solaris Lounge smelling of the sea
We read submissions on a rolling basis